


Of The Earth, Sea, and Sky

by Blackbird_Wings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ficlets, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Team Free Will, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackbird_Wings/pseuds/Blackbird_Wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of small stories surrounding life within and around Team Free Will. Prompts welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Any single word prompts would be more than welcome! These are merely little warm up things that I wasn't even sure if I should post up.

**\--**

**Piano**

When it happens, it takes the older Winchester completely off-guard. Later he'll wonder why the hell he was even surprised, the actions suiting the angel so perfectly that he's a little stumped that it's never occurred to him before. The house is ancient and rotting; but as deserted as it is, there's still a varied array of furniture scattered about, abandoned to the elements.

The pianos' clear, if slightly out of tune notes, peel out into the darkness; drawing the battle-scared hunter in like a moth to a flame, the slow calm of soft music settling into his bones despite the hunt remaining unfinished.

Who knew angels could play anything other than harps?

  
**Humour**   
  


Dean's version of simple humour is a vastly obscure concept, and as much as Castiel's gotten used to the many puzzling phrases and actions of his two Winchester charges, there are times when the Seraph finds himself utterly befuddled. No matter his best efforts.

The pair are brothers. Closer than any others he's ever seen over his many millennia, far closer than he is with his own siblings. But the vigilant and curious angel will never understand how swapping the keys of Sam's laptop around and going through the frustrating pains of remarking them is a sign of love.

 

**Square**  
  


The equality of a square sides' length is utterly dependent on the placement of it's four corresponding corners. If they are askew and improperly measured, the shape loses it's form and it's definition.

Gabriel doesn't have the patient head of his baby brother, but the archangel has spent enough time in Heaven's armies to know whether a unit fighting together will be successful just by sight. And this little arrangement of a tired old drunk, two human boys, and one very curious Seraph is probably the strongest one he's ever seen. They are four pillars, dependant on each other to keep fighting the good fight. For the first time in hundreds of years, the archangel finds himself rooting for a side.

 

**Wax**  
  


Sam Winchester isn't usually a man that harbours vendetta's about anything short of a supernatural beat down.

But the young hunter can only be pushed too far. And Gabriel getting him drunk enough to allow his eyebrows to be waxed off is _definitely_ too far. It doesn't matter that the cackling creature had snapped them back on with a crack of his fingers, Sam Winchester was out for blood and he wasn't going to stop until he had it.

After all, Dean has at least five pictures on his phone.

 

**Ravage**  
  


Anger is a curious thing. Angel's aren't the emotionless beings that Dean sometimes like to imply they are. It's true that there was a time when Castiel would have been appalled to have been accused of doubt or fear.

But it's never been a secret that angels can feel rage.

Yet, it seems like the demons have forgotten this in Heaven's several century absence.

Castiel isn't ashamed of his feelings any more; he's proud of his freedom, at peace with his growing empathy, happy with his attachments.

But the old emotions didn't die with the new ones, and when the Seraph touches down in an abandoned warehouse hard enough to shatter concrete, the demons will learn what it means to fear again for touching his Winchesters.

  
 **\--**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few more ficlets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any single word prompts are welcome :)

**\--**

**Hobby**

Hunters don't exactly have much time for kindling hobbies. But that doesn't mean Dean hasn't fought to develop one any way. It wasn't even intentional. John Winchester handing over Baby's keys had been the best part of Dean's entire adult life, bar having the devil and king of all the topside dicks locked back up in Hell of course. Besides family, the Impala is everything the older Winchester needs in life. A constant stability, his home on the never ending road, his port of any storm.

Dean Winchester doesn't break under pressure, he doesn't back down from a fight. But if he needs someone to mumble too when the burden starts to feel too great. Well, his Baby's never let him down yet.

 

**Ski**

“Are you sure about this, Dean?” Sam asks warily, eyeing the powdered Snowbird slope like it might open up and swallow him.

The older brother grinned teasingly, having “borrowed” some ski equipment earlier that day. “Never too late to learn. Right, Sammy?” He wobbles a little as he says it, a hunter's balance helps a little against the slippery slats beneath their feet, but not by a lot. “Cas ain't worried, are you?”

The angel is staring at the skis like one would a drooling Wendigo. It's surprising they're not on fire. “The risk of injury to yourselves is much higher than usual, Dean.” He states, tone thick with uncharacteristic apprehension.

Dean frowns at the pair somewhat patronisingly, “you telling me an _Angel of the Lord_ is frightened of a little powder?” He scoffs. “Jeez, man. Grow a pair. I thought Sammy here was being a fuc- _AH_!”

The younger hunter and angel watch the flailing Winchester rocket off down the slope. The Seraph tilts his head as Dean does a particularly spectacular flip in the distance, before glancing towards the younger Winchester calmly.

“Thank you, Sam.”

 

**Rain**

If you spend your days roaming around bumfuck nowhere, hunting the night for all things messed up, with a fiercely protective angel of the Lord.

You have really have to get used to rain.

Dean, rather unfortunately, hates the stuff.

It's not a common occurrence really; and it takes a good few months to put together the corresponding picture of a pissed of Seraph and vastly shifting weather patterns. It's actually a little embarrassing how long it takes the human to notice. But there's not exactly much the brothers can do about it either.

Besides, if a howling thunderstorm starts peppering the surrounding area with sharp strikes of lightning when your chained to a post watching your brother about to be flayed alive; the annoyance of getting soaked when the roof is torn off, is a damn small price to pay for seeing those ebony wing shadows thrown up against the wall like a threat.

 

**Lift**

Dean cackles like a mad man when Castiel gives him a thoroughly puzzled glance.

The angel is still holding the fallen oak tree's trunk up with one hand, propping up the weight effortlessly to let the brothers more closely inspect the smear that is their latest victim. Castiel narrows his eyes into a  _ Explain yourself Dean _ squint, because there's nothing apparently funny about a crushed corpse in the middle of the wilderness.

The hunter doesn't even know where he's heard it, probably from some punks hanging around too close to his Baby at some point or another. He has no idea why it rings through his head, but it does.

“Do you even lift, Bro?”

Sam just shakes his head, like he's a tired parent that just wants to sleep for the rest of his life without having to deal with anymore of Dean's weird ass crap.

 

**Pumpkin**

“Is there a particular reason why you're scoring strange faces into the skin of that eviscerated fruit, Dean?” Castiel's rough tones enquire from his recent arrival in the corner of the room.

Dean nearly carves his thumb from his hand as he jolts at the sudden appearance, cursing the angel blackly. “It's a pumpkin, dude. Sam hates the things, says they look demented.”

The Seraph tilts his head, confused by the brother's logic here. It's far from the first example of a carved pumpkin that Castiel's seen over the last few days, but this is definitely the most accurate portrayal of a Wendigo that he's seen so far. “Why would you make something to frighten Sam?”

The older Winchester scoffs, chucking the freaky fruit to the angel lazily. “Cas, why wouldn't I? Now help me find a way to string this baby up.”

**\--**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few more ficlets.  
> Word Prompts welcome.

**Sunset**

There are many reasons why angels became enchanted with the lands their Father built for their distant human cousins.

Castiel is no different.

Only, he has many more reasons than his detached siblings.

Winchesters and their causes aside, the simple beauty of this small planet charms the Seraph. And few things more so than a warm, golden sunset. The angel once flew through the searing heat of the sun itself, coming through the other side of the star without a scratch for the effort taken, peering into its burning heart and feeling how she worked.

He decided long ago that it looks a thousand times more beautiful from the great distance of the Earth. And if the Winchesters ever want to find him in the evening, first port of call is always the roof.

 

**Crumbs**

If there ever comes a day when Sam becomes overtired of his older brother's petulant actions, there is one sure fire way to piss Dean off faster than a demon before morning coffee.

The simplicity of it is what attracts Sam to it as a means of self-preservation in the first place.

Getting crumbs all over the Impala.

Dean rages every time it happens. He'd forbidden the consumption of any crumb prone foods years ago within the precious confines of his Baby's interior. It drives him mad, spending literal _hours_ sucking all of the little fuckers up.

Whatever Dean's been doing to piss the younger Winchester off, abruptly stops.

 

**Goose**

“Dude, I think it likes you.” Dean chortles out, snickering from his safe haven on top of the chicken coop.

Sam is off scouting the other side of the recently deserted farm. Hunting out the Rawhead supposedly prowling the lot.

Castiel continues to stare down at the fluffed up, hissing creature menacingly eyeing up the angel. Its wings spread out threateningly, the grating sibilant sound growing louder all the time. “I am not sure that's the case, Dean.”

“Don't be a fucking baby, man. Get rid of it.”

“I'm not the one sitting on top of a chicken house, Dean.”

By the time Sam comes back, the pair are tucked up on the small wooden structure, eyeing the Goose warily as it stalks around them like a wolf hunting an injured lamb. Sam laughs for ten minutes straight.

 

**Father**

The Winchester brothers don't have all that much anymore.

With their entire family dead, no roots anywhere, and everything they own able to fit easily in the Impala's trunk. Sometimes the brothers feel like they're drifting on a churning ocean of the supernatural, waves that keep tossing them adrift no matter how hard they try to focus on their horizons. The everyday darkness drilling down so deep, it becomes difficult to remember who’s the monster and who’s the hunter.

At times like these. The older Winchester will swing the Impala East, heading towards their only open door and the man who'll yell at them to suck it up, sort it out, and then cook them a full homemade meal; because they're looking too peaky damnit.

 

**Tourist**

“I'll kill him!” Dean seethes blackly, squinting out across the ocean through the blinding rays of dazzling, roasting hot sunlight.

Sam sighs morosely as he takes in the khaki shorts and freaky yellow open Hawaiian shirt hanging off his own frame.

The colours are sickeningly happy.

If anything, Castiel looks the most disgusted the hunters have ever seen; dressed similarly to the humans, open deep blue shirt patterned with overly cheerful flamingos, topped off with sunglasses that are doing little to hide the blazing retribution scalding away in his piercing blue eyes.

The older Winchester whines at his red shirt. “I fucking _hate_ shorts, man. Gabriel! You little bastard, just wait till I find my razor!”

 

**Shamrock**

St. Patrick's Day is a weird ass holiday even by the Winchester's messed up standards, like how desperate for an excuse to drink does someone have to be to pluck up an _Irish_ holiday.

Whatever the reason, Dean's damn grateful for it.

“I don't understand the reasoning, Sam. Saint Patrick's use of the shamrock was to illustrate the holy trinity of young Christianity. I fail to see how that message prompts twenty four hours of constant Western iniquity.”

The younger Winchester snorts into his extortionately priced Guinness, rolling his eyes at the overly dramatic pistol Dean makes with his hands to silently murder himself. Dean beats him to an answer though, and Sam's not sure if he's relieved or not. “Christ, Cas. Who the hell cares why? People get to have fun, I get to get drunk _and_ laid almost without fail every single year. It's like Valentine’s day without all the moping women.” The hunter ducks down enough to pull out a tall green overly stuffed hat. “Now shut up and put this on, I have a bet with an archangel to win.”

–


End file.
